


Set Your Arms Down

by beastinpeace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Clexa, F/F, Future Fic, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 09:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastinpeace/pseuds/beastinpeace
Summary: Clarke helps Lexa feel powerful.





	Set Your Arms Down

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing but an exercise in getting words on paper.

She’d received word earlier that she would be dining alone; she was not to wait up. 

It happened more infrequently these days - with the Coalition firmly established, and the dawning of a tentative peace finally on the horizon - Lexa, commander of the thirteen clans, for the first time had allowed herself a private life, and space within it for a nightly dinner companion. Tonight was not one of those nights. Recent conflict between the river clans had been enough to stir unrest along arterial trading routes, and Lexa had the unenviable task of placating fussy merchants to foster good will and demonstrate that the newly negotiated agreements were not under any threat.  So tonight, Clarke Griffin, advisor and ambassador to the Sky People, would be dining alone. 

Clarke didn't mind when this happened, she never  questioned Lexa’s duty to her people - duty-bound in her own right, she knew that their partnership would always have to bend with the needs of Lexa’s rule and her service to her people. By accepting Polis as her home, and its people as her people, Clarke had gained the respect of the city and the ever-deepening adoration of its commander. 

She knows this is for the best. Lately, she's sensed a tension of a different sort - Lexa, who had been at the height of her reign when they’d met, dragging the clans together through sheer force of will and whatever means necessary, seemed adrift during this transition of power. Her position as a warrior, a leader, a general, was now turning into that of a figure head, giving way to allow more symbolic duties that called on less of her physical prowess, fierce intellect and strategic mind.  Lexa had never coveted absolute power, quite the opposite, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t acutely aware of its absence, and wasn’t struggling to define herself in its wake.

\---

It’s late. She’s in bed, waiting, not asleep but drifting, when she is roused by the soft click of the bed chamber door being shut, and the quiet crunch of heavy soled boots treading lightly across the concrete.  She opens her eyes to see a slender silhouetted figure slip silently around the corner into the dressing room. Hears the scrape of flint against a blade as the far wall of the bedroom is bathed in dappled candlelight, allowing her to watch an elongated shadow dance on the wall as Lexa moves quietly around the adjacent space. She pushes back the blankets and inhales a soft hiss as her bare feet touch the cold concrete floor.  She moves quickly and quietly, not wanting to startle Lexa, but revelling in this rare opportunity to secretly observe.  

As she rounds the corner of the dressing room, though, she can feel the tension radiating off the commander.  Clarke’s eyes scan from the boots on the floor, hastily toed off in the corner, laces barely undone and sitting haphazardly, to the shoulder guard flung carelessly over the back of a chair, to the tense shoulders of the woman facing away from her, shirt partially untucked and hips pressed against the dressing table as she tugs at her gauntlets with impatient fingers.

Clarke pads softly toward her, bare feet silent on the thick fur rug. Lexa spots her movement, and makes eye contact in the mirror and stills, her expression visibly softening as Clarke moves to press the length of her body against Lexa’s back, hands resting gently at her waist. Lexa relaxes back into the touch, and Clarke reaches up to brush that dark mane of hair off one shoulder to expose the long column of her neck. Clarke presses her face there, letting her lips brush lightly against the notches of her spine, and deeply inhales the scent of her.

"You're back late," she murmurs into the soft skin, and feels Lexa’s almost imperceptible nod.

"The river clans are causing disturbances along the trade routes," she tells her impatiently, and Clarke nods against her shoulder, "As displeased as I am with the trading council, I am left to stand aside and placate merchants with kind words."  She sighs and lets her body slump, "on days like today, I am more a trained pony than Heda."

Clarke, for her part, remains silent, lips still soft against Lexa’s neck, her breathing steady.  Whatever response she could give, she's given it before.  

Lexa exhales a quiet, mirthless laugh, "I know," she responds to what she hears in Clarke’s silence, “I know I am too proud, I know this is exactly what I wanted for myself and for my people.”

Clarke’s fingers find Lexa’s collar to loosen it. “You have a right to be proud,” she whispers lovingly into the crook of her shoulder, leaving a soft kiss on the newly exposed skin, completely aware of Lexa’s shallow breath and her shudder at the touch.

She nods in acknowledgement of the sentiment, and lets her head fall forward, hands now braced against the dresser. With no more words forthcoming, Clarke rocks forward onto the balls of her feet, presses her body close, brings her mouth right up against the shell of Lexa’s ear and feels Lexa shiver at the sensation of her warm breath. 

"You are formidable, Heda," Clarke whispers, voice low, entirely aware of what the honorific does to Lexa.  

At this, she hears more than sees the slight uptick at the corner of Lexa’s mouth when she says, "I told you not to call me that in private."

"Are you not my Heda, Heda?" Clarke asks, undeterred, feigning innocence even as her voice rasps suggestively. 

Lexa turns her face, affectionately nuzzling at Clarke’s cheek, “Are we not equals?”

“Not tonight, Commander,” Clarke tells her, her dark eyes holding Lexa’s gaze meaningfully.

In moments like this, it's easy to forget how far Lexa stands apart. She is Clarke's ruler, her Commander, but behind the closed doors of this bed chamber, her Lexa is relentlessly _gentle_. It makes it so easy to forget about the blood - black as ink as it churns inside her, it craves violence and fills her with carnal desire.

“Clarke...” Lexa warns, even as her voice cracks. 

“Do you address all of your subjects by their given name?”

Lexa turns then, bracketed in Clarke’s arms against the dressing table, and rests her forehead against Clarke’s.

“You could never be my subject, my love,” Lexa whispers ardently against Clarke’s lips, earnest in the face of Clarke's advances.

Clarke holds Lexa’s gaze fiercely, “I am," she begins, lifting her hand to scrape nails against the front of Lexa's hip, her breath warm against Lexa's lips, "your most faithful subject,” a soft kiss, "Heda."

Lexa's breath escapes her in a rush. Clarke can feel the tension between them with every fibre of herself and, as if to demonstrate her devotion, she begins to sink slowly to her knees.  As she moves, she runs her fingers from Lexa's waist to her hips, then presses her fingers hard into the fabric as she runs her hands down the front of her thighs. She sits back on her heels, hands steadying herself on Lexa's calves, anchoring them together, as she looks up through heavy lashes.

“Clarke,” Lexa breathes out heavily.

“Ambassador,” Clarke corrects.

“Ambassador,” Lexa rolls her eyes, laughs nervously, extending a hand, “stand up, please,” she pleads, barely containing a whimper.

Clarke rocks forward on her knees, runs her hands up the backs of Lexa’s thighs and draws in so close that Lexa can feel the low hum of each word as they are spoken against the buttoned front of her trousers, “is it not customary to kneel before my Heda?”

Lexa cannot stifle the helpless moan that escapes her, her eyelids flutter, even as her jaw is clenched, molten heat settling low in her stomach. She reaches down, pupils blown, hands tangling messily into Clarke’s hair. 

"Clarke..." she breathes.

"Ambassador," Clarke corrects.

"Clarke," Lexa says firmly, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Clarke looks up then, her eyes black as Lexa's blood, "of course," she replies, her gaze unwavering, "I'm giving myself to my Heda."

\---


End file.
